


sweethearts

by fairytelling



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Fluff, Non-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2020-07-28 23:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytelling/pseuds/fairytelling
Summary: you: waiting for you is like waiting for rain in this drought. useless and disappointing.chris: did you just text me a quote from a cinderella story?chris: shit, is that how you actually feel?or, high school sweethearts reunite





	1. Chapter 1

His timing has always been off. You’ve known this for, well, forever. But, Chris never fails to surprise you, it used to be a blessing. Today, it’s a curse.

Chris taps on the window off the store, big goofy smile on his stupid face, as he peers in. He’ll throw you off your game. You’re not in the state of mind to engage in battle and deal with Chris. You’ve got cupcakes, cookies and milkshakes lined up on the table. You're sitting in the middle of the cherry-red, leather booth, surrounded by the enemy — five fourth-graders.

“Is that Mr Captain?” Dylan says, leaning out from the side of the booth.

“Don’t call him that,” Maddy snaps from across the table. “It’s Mr Chris — you can’t call him by his character’s name. Right, Miss Y/N?”

Chris’ eyes catch yours and you can’t help but smile back. Your heart sticks in your throat and your mind has been hit by a hurricane. What used to be well organised is chaos as hidden feelings burrow to the surface.

“Right, Miss Y/N?” Maddy repeats, clicking her fingers in front of your face. Snapped out of your reverie, you shimmy past them, squeezing between the table and their legs to get the door.

As soon as you open the door, Chris pulls you into a hug. The smell of his cologne smothers your nostrils as your face presses into his shirt.

“My mom said that you guys were down here,” he says, already waving at the crew. They grin, eyes twinkling with excitement and wave back — who doesn’t love Mr Captain America? Still trapped in his bear hug, he leans to your ear. “Also heard that you might need some backup.”

He lets go after what feels like a decade, but the fluttering in your chest doesn’t settle.

“Something like that.”

They scoot over, making space for Chris. There’s a round of high fives and Sutton goes straight for a hug.

“So, what’s this I hear about you guys protesting?” He asks. Sutton’s now nestled into his side.

“We don’t want to do the Wizard of Oz,” Karthik says, arms folded across his chest.

With all the grace of a lawyer, Maddy pulls another letter from her backpack and passes it to Chris. He bites his bottom lip as he reads it. The corner of his lips tug, fighting off the laughter he’s holding back.

“Wow, you guys are really serious about this,” he says. His voice is a little pitchy, as he swallows down his amusement.

Honestly, you’re impressed with them. It’s not every day that you receive an envelope, addressed to you, signed by five ten-year-olds, stating that this year they’re _absolutely, no way in heck _doing Wizard of Oz as their musical. It doesn’t surprise you that this group wrote and co-signed a strongly worded letter. At least this time they went for a democratic approach.

“Hell, yeah,” Dylan swears. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he quickly corrects himself with less gusto. “_Heck, _yeah.”

“So, we’ve decided that we’re not doing Wizard of Oz, but we can’t seem to agree on what we’re going to do instead.”

“Well, actually,” Maddy chimes in, full-lawyer voice, “if you read our letter - we say that we want to do a superhero love story with aliens, and a big musical number, and a murder mystery and a sword-fighting scene.”

You groan. “But that doesn’t exist.”

“We’re going to make it exist,” she replies, so confident and so sure of herself. You’re almost tempted to ask her to lend you some of her confidence.

“Alright, how do you guys plan on doing that?” Chris asks them. He’s propped one of his elbows on the table, leaning in, hanging on their every word. The other hand is holding a cupcake that he’s swiped from the table.

(They’re plain vanilla icing, with rainbow sprinkles — of course. No nuts because Ayesha’s allergic, Maddy’s are gluten-free and Neil’s has no icing because his mom doesn’t believe in icing. She also doesn’t believe in vaccinations, so _her opinions don’t count_.)

“We’re going to write it, of course,” Neil adds as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Again, you groan, burying your head into your hands. “How’d I end up with you guys again?”

“Because you love us and you’re the only person willing to take us on after the year before last.” Karthik’s words are garbled as he munches on a snickerdoodle, referring to _the-incident-that-must-not-be-named._

How you ended up with your own acting troop is still a mystery to you. Sure, you’ve been volunteering at the youth theatre from the very moment you outgrew it, but how this group of miscreants have attached themselves to you, burrowed into your life to the point they’re a permanent fixture is anyone’s guess. But the fact you own the most popular bakery in Sudbury might be involved. Sugar can sweeten just about anyone.

“Writing an entire play is really hard, guys,” Chris says.

“Have you ever written a play?”

He scratches the back of his head. “I haven’t.”

“So, you don’t actually know if it’s that hard,” Ayesha replies.

His eyes widen and he casts you a pleading look. You shrug, quite happy to let him be their prey. Famous or not, this motley crew take no prisoners.

“Wait, guys I’ve got an idea!” Dylan’s grin is wide with triumph, as he slaps his thigh. His face is bright, reflecting the glow of his lightbulb moment. “Mr Chris, why don’t you help us write a play? You’ve been in proper plays before. I’m sure you know what to do.”

“I’m not much of a writer, kiddo,” he replies, squirming at the intensity of the puppy dog-eyes.

“Oh, please,” Sutton says, sotto voce, sweeter than caramel.

“Please, please, Mr Chris.” Karthik tugs at his forearm.

He starts giving his excuses. “I’m only here for a couple of months—.”

“Well, that’s perfect,” Maddy interjects and you nearly snort your milkshake.

“And Miss Y/N will bake your favourite cupcakes!” Karthik offers your services.

“It’ll be the best, you can teach us how to fight like Captain America!” That’s Dylan. Of course, it’s Dylan. (He’s deep in a superhero phase. He only ever wears superhero merchandise. Last week, he was wearing a Spider-Man shirt. Today’s is a Batman t-shirt.)

“Haven’t I ever told you guys about stunt doubles?” He asks, but the question goes unanswered.

“And you can teach us to tap dance again!” And that’s Ayesha, whose usually quiet, but she’s found her voice since Chris is here.

“Please, Mr Chris,” Neil adds, and within seconds, it’s a chorus of pleases and pretty pleases. Interesting when their manners appear. How can you say no to five puppy dog eyes?

“I guess we can try to sort something out,” he caves. “Only if Miss Y/N agrees. You’re her class and I wouldn’t want to step on her toes.”

They turn their focus to you — their superpower in full force.

You force a smile. “It’ll be fun.”

It’s not going to be fun.

***

The next time you see Chris is a few days later at a mutual friend’s barbecue. The weather is nearly perfect, as summer bleeds into autumn. He catches you with your head in the trunk of your car.

“Y/N,” he calls out.

The sound makes you jump and of your head smacks into the roof of the car.

“Fiddlesticks.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry,” he says, quickly placing a hand on the small of your back.

“S’okay,” you grumble, but your head is throbbing. You rub the spot, but that only makes you wince.

“Fuck. Sorry. Shouldn’t have startled you. How about I carry in whatever goodies you’ve got and we’ll get some ice off of Anna,” he says.

Dizzy with the pain, all you do is nod. Agile as ever, he grabs the box from the trunk, shuts it and nudges you towards the door. Using his elbow, he opens the door.

Anna, who’s been both of your friends since middle school, purses her lips when she sees the two of you together. “What happened to you?”

“Hit my head,” you mutter.

“My bad,” Chris admits, sheepish.

“Where’s Jonathan?” Anna asks pointedly.

“He’s in Nepal,” you reply, tone clipped due to the pain.

“Oh, was that the charity surgery event he was talking about?” Anna asks.

You nod.

“_Who’s_ Jonathan?” Chris asks.

“God, sometimes you get so out of the loop. He’s Y/N’s boyfriend. It’s been what — six months?” Anna says, poking Chris’s bicep.

“We just had our one-year anniversary,” you mumble before your eyes dart to Chris, whose lips are puckered in surprise.

“I’m gonna go get some ice,” you say, suddenly overwhelmed by the awkwardness of the situation.

“Here, you take these and we’ll go steal something from your freezer.” Anna’s too perplexed to respond as Chris dumps the cupcakes in her arm. He herds you into the kitchen. You prop yourself onto the counter. You nearly get whiplash at the speed of which he passes you a bag of frozen peas.

You twitch as you put the ice to the back of your head. The look Chris is giving you could rival some of the kids; biting his bottom lip, wide baby blues, a frown line.

“I’ll be alright,” you say, “go mingle.”

He shakes his head. “Gotta see if you’re alright, you hit your head pretty hard.”

He holds up three fingers, waves them in our face. “How many fingers am I holding?”

You scoff. “Enough.”

“Y/N,” he intones.

“Three. Tres. Troi,” you say, managing to narrow your eyes at Chris.

Honestly, his fussing makes things worse. Where did you get the idea that you could be friends with your ex?

“Okay, no double vision,” he says as if he knows what he’s doing.

You raise your eyebrows.

“Okay, Dr Evans.”

“Hey — sorry, I just feel guilty—.”

“I only bumped my head, I’m sure I’ll live,” you say, a little curious about how worried he looks. His fingers strum against the counter and his bottom lip is trembling.

“Y/N, I just.” He cuts himself off. “You’ve got a boyfriend?”

You’re saved from answered as Anna wanders into her kitchen.

“Hey Chris, Tommy’s looking for you. He’s mad offended that you didn’t tell him you were back in town,” she says.

He sends you an exasperated look, glancing between the two of you.

“Go, go,” you shoo him away, “I’m fine and you’ve got some grovelling to do.”

He slinks away and you let out a sigh of relief when he leaves.

“What was that?” Anna asks, tilting her head.

You shrug. “Beats me.”

***

The next day, when you’re knee-deep in frosting, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You ignore it, until you’ve finished icing this wedding cake. Unfortunately, you’ve been inundated with elaborate cake orders for the past two weeks. Once you’ve managed to get your hands relatively clean, you pick up your phone.

You have the usual messages from the group chats you’re a member of. There’s a missed call from Jonathan’s Nepalese number. He’s also sent you a couple of cute photos. You’ve also got a missed call from Scott, who’s saved as BFF’s lil bro in your phone _still _and a series of texts.

**BFF’s lil bro:** breaking my not getting involved rule!!!!

**BFF’s lil bro:** chris says he wants to talk to you

**BFF’s lil bro:** he’s upset that he didn’t know you were in a relationship

**BFF’s lil bro:** thought I’d give you a heads up :/

And like magic, there’s a blue dot next to Chris name. (There’s not been a dot there for a while now — you’ve been careful to limit your contact over the last year, unless it’s in person.)

**Chris:** let me know when you’re on break - can we have a c&c? :)

It’s involuntary — the smile that breaks out when you see that he still remembers your c&c sessions (coffee and cupcake). You’d started them years ago, _god when you were seventeen. _

You wipe your hands again against your apron, let your staff know that you’re going on break and to bring you one coffee, one tea and two of the cupcakes of the day. And of course, there he is, sitting in your favourite booth.

“Hey,” you say, sliding in and taking a seat.

“Hey, Y/N,” he responds.

“What’s up? Everything okay?” You pretend that you haven’t received a warning signal from Scott.

“Fine, I guess,” he answers, scratching the back of his head.

You quirk an eyebrow. He still seems on edge, like he’d been yesterday. “Bullshit — you’re not that good an actor.”

He laughs, but it’s a little strained and strangled. “Shit — I forgot that you can read me like a book.”

Before you have to respond, you’re saved by Lydia, placing the drinks and cupcakes on the table.

“You’re an angel,” you say, thanking her. She waves it off, before disappearing.

“Just thinking about the fact that I think too much,” he says.

It’s not your place to ask anymore, so you’re at a loss of what to reply. The awkwardness between the two of you is so palpable, especially when you don’t have any buffers. “Make sure you don’t bottle it up.”

“Yeah.”

A pregnant pause follows.

“I just wanted to check that you’re alright with me helping out with the play. I know it’s like your thing and I don’t want to intrude—.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you cut him off, “you’re on the board and the kids want you to help out.”

“But do you?”

“I want what the kids want,” you reply, before taking a sip of your tea. It’s a good answer because it isn’t technically a lie.

He picks up his cupcake. Today’s special is Salted Caramel. He swipes a bit of frosting off the top, before sucking on his finger.

“Mmmmm, this is good,” he practically moans, and it’s pornographic: the sound, the way he licks his lips, “Shit, this is _really _good.”

He makes you blush.

“You’re not actually going to write them a play, are you?” You ask.

You’re pretty desperate to swerve the conversation off track. Given the opportunity, Chris will press you. He’s always been a bit of a needy one— he wants to be loved, hates the idea of anyone hating him. And, _god, _it’s so terribly awkward. You still know him like the back of your hand, but you feel like you’re communicating via a brick wall. (The irony of which is not lost on you, because you guys played Pyramus and Thisbe in a showcase when you were fifteen.)

“I was thinking that we, if you’re alright with it, that we can do a bit of a pick n mix. Break up some key scenes from some plays that we’ve already got the rights to,” he offers.

“That could work — I was thinking something similar, but maybe we have the kids narrate in between, create a semblance of a plot,” you say.

“That’s it,” Chris replies, clicking his fingers. “That would work and we could make it flow together nicely.”

“Mhmm.” You nod, still at a loss of what to say to Chris.

“We’d have to run it by my mom, but I can’t see her saying no,” he says.

“I highly doubt that she’ll say no,” is all you can respond.

You take another sip of your tea. His fingers strum against the table.

_This is so awkward._

“So, am I the last person to know about this, _your _boyfriend?” His hand gestures are wild as he struggles to get to the word boyfriend.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “I mean, everyone’s met him. Your parents included.”

“So, no one told me,” he says, thinking aloud.

Chris claims to never get angry, which for all intents and purposes is true. He's rarely angry. But, oh my god, can he be passive-aggressive.

“I don’t think anyone thought it was newsworthy. You’ll probably meet him when he’s back.”

“You said he was in Nepal?” He asks.

“Mhmm. He’s a paediatric surgeon, works at the Children’s Hospital. Kept coming in to order cupcakes for his patients and their families,” you say, before flipping the script. “You’re single, right?”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Chris replies.

“God, I thought at least one of us would be married by now,” you blurt out.

“Marriage on the cards with this surgeon guy?” Chris asks.

“We’ve talked about it,” you say, but your voice shrinks.

“And?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to marrying him. He’s the sweetest, loves kids, has a good job. My parents like him. But doesn’t like dogs.”

Chris wrinkles his nose. “So, you’re settling.”

“He’s settling and I’m punching,” you say, taking another sip.

“Have you seen yourself?” Chris’ eyebrow arches as he leans forward.

You smooth out the creases in your skirt. “I’m getting old. Dating feels like someone put my ovaries in a pressure cooker. Sometimes, you gotta ask yourself —am I looking for love or for a sperm donor?”

Chris throws his head back in laughter and slaps his thigh. “Sweetheart—.”

He laughs more and your heart races at the sound of your old nickname. It’d started before you were officially dating, he’d call you sweetheart to tease you, and it stuck.

“Sweetheart,” he repeats, “you can’t be serious.”

“I honestly wish I didn’t, but that’s the truth.”

“Well, that’s pretty depressing,” Chris says, now sombre. “You used to be a romantic — you had the grand plan to have the big house and the four kids and we'd—.”

He cuts himself off when he realizes he added himself to the fantasy and you send him a pointed look.

“Plans change,” you say, simply.

“Speaking of plans,” he says, voice a little pitchy, because your conversation has wandered down an unwanted path, “Mom mentioned you want to open another store.”

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to expand to Downtown. But, it’s a lot of money, so I’m looking for an investor,” you say, already brightening at the change of topic.

“I’ll do it,” he says, without skipping a beat. “You won’t even have to pay me back.”

“No, no, absolutely not. You don’t go into business with friends.” You wave your hands frantically.

What you mean to say is you don’t go into businesses with ex-boyfriends.

Especially the ones you're still in love with. 

“Seriously, I think there are few people who love your cupcakes more than I do. Why do you think I get my mom or sisters to put in orders whenever they come for a visit? Plus, I used to eat your baking when it was bad. Surely, that counts for something?”

“Yeah, I’ll admit that I did torture you, but I paid you back.” You laugh.

“In blowjobs,” he adds and you nearly die.

“Oh my god, you’re nasty. And I’m sure you told your mom straight after.”

“Like you didn’t tell yours.” He nudges you with a foot.

“I’d tell her maybe like a week after we did something. You’d go home and tell yours immediately. Lisa was so afraid that she started slipping condoms everywhere once she knew we were sexually active.”

“She took it too far when she put one in my lunch,” Chris reminisces.

“I think what killed me was when I drove you two home once, and she left some condoms in the glove compartment of my car and said that she was too young to become a grandmother.”

“I nearly passed out,” Chris says, spluttering from the laughter.

“I avoided coming to your house for over a week after that happened because I couldn’t look her in the eye since she knew we were frick fracking.”

“You still refuse to swear?” He asks. “C’mon say it with me…”

“Fuck.”

“Frick.”

He laughs again.

“Seriously, sweetheart—.”

“I spend too much time with kids to let swearing become a regular thing.”

“Fits your brand.”

“What’s my brand? I don’t have a brand, not a personal one at least,” you say.

“You do,” Chris says, running a hand through his hair. It’s currently in your favourite state: long, blonde, a bit fluffy.

“Kind, volunteers all her time doing things for the local community, refuses to swear, overachiever, manically organised,” he says.

“Started off as a compliment, ended as an insult,” you joke, before blowing him a raspberry. “Sooo, how long are you in town for?”

“Four months,” he says.

“That’s long,” you say. Longer than he’s ever stayed since leaving.

“L.A. is _a lot.”_ He grimaces. You want to unpack that, figure out what’s been going on his life, but it’s not your business anymore. “And anyway, I felt like a catch up was overdue. I haven’t had more than a five-minute conversation with you in forever.”

You snort. “You got busy for us small-town folk.”

His smile disappears and his lips press together.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way, oh my god.” Your hand gestures grow wild, flustered that you’ve upset him.

“It’s alright. You’re not wrong. Plus, if I wasn’t prepared for your brutal honesty, we wouldn’t be friends.”

Friends is, like, the worst descriptor for whatever is between the two of you. How can it feel no time and so much time has passed between you?

“Yeah, often my big mouth gets me into trouble. Like, I might have had a fight or two with Neil’s mom, Ashley, about vaccinating her kids.”

“Bigmouth,” he snickers.

“You’re tacky and I hate you,” you grumble, leaning over to flick him on the shoulder.

“Nah, you don’t.” He says it with such confidence that it makes your chest ache.

The conversation meanders away from the sexual innuendos, which is good, considering you have a boyfriend. God, where’s google answers when you need them: what are the ethics of being in a relationship and still being mad about your ex? Asking for a friend!

“So, last week I went ‘shop window shopping’ tomorrow,” you explain, telling Chris of last week’s secret expedition when you wandered around Downtown and Midtown. You hadn’t the nerve to call a realtor. “I was even tempted to start the process, but I don’t know. Jonathan said it was a silly idea and so I haven’t told anyone.”

“You told me,” Chris points out.

“You won’t judge me for dreaming big. Your dreams have all come true.”

He shakes his head. “One, I wish my all dreams were true and two, I don’t think that’s what’s stopping you.”

You sigh and your shoulder sags. “Jonathan’s super pragmatic. So, he thinks it’s unrealistic and naive that I want to avoid corporate investors and to expand to such an expensive location, so why should I be looking at places I can’t afford? He’s only going to say I’m being impractical.”

“Hmmm.”

“Don’t get me wrong. He supports me, he just likes to serve it with a cold dish of reality.” You fiddle with your fingers, weaving them together and then pull them apart.

“So, you’re telling me he’s a Debbie Downer. I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t kept telling me I couldn’t do it. I still have your copy of Peter Pan.”

It’s like he’s trying to remind you that he has still half of your heart in his back pocket.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah — with all the cute motivational quotes you highlighted and the bookmark you made,” he adds.

There’d been a string of rejections before he got cast in anything - so you’d made him a “cheer up, you can do it” care package. This mostly consisted of his favourite baked goods, but you’d also highlighted a copy of your favourite book.

“You’re such a dork, why would you keep that after all this time? It’s childish trash.”

Chris throws his hand on his chest, affronted. He pouts, eyes widening. “That trash is extremely important to me. You’re heartless. You don’t have any of my stuff?”

His bottom lip quivers. His acting is good, _too good. _

He’s fishing.

The issue is, he has you hook, line and sinker. He always has.

“You know I have a memory box,” you say, rolling your eyes. He knows this.

“Still got my class ring?”

You’re _this close_ to leaning over and wiping that smug smirk off that face.

“Do you want it back?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s still yours.”

“Thank you for your continued generosity. Let me know when the lease is over.”

He stares out the window for a few moments, before snapping himself back to reality. Then, he scoots closer in the booth. “Have you got plans tomorrow?”

“I’ve got a four-tiered fortieth birthday cake that needs decorating at some point, but otherwise it’s a bit of me day,” you say.

“I’ll pick you up at eleven am,” he says, a devious glint in his eye. “We’re going out.”

***

It’s not a date. It’s not a date. It’s not a date.

Except you’re stressing in front of your wardrobe, throwing clothes, holding them up in front of the mirror and sighing. You have to mentally slap yourself, before deciding on the simple, easy combo of jeans and a white shirt.

It’s just Chris. But he’s never been _just _Chris.

There’s a niggly voice in the back of your head, pointing out that _you wouldn’t care this much if was Jonathan. _You swallow the lump that forms in your throat — you’re just hanging out with an old friend. Where’s the crime?

You peer out of the window to see Chris in his car, windows rolled down. Hand out the window, he beckons you.

“Get in loser, we’re going shopping.”

You laugh, before running down the stairs. You shut the front door behind you and slide into the passenger's seat.

“Nice Mean Girls quote.”

“You only made me take you to the theatre to watch it,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses and mirrors, before reversing out.

“Don’t act like you weren’t honoured to witness such a theatrical masterpiece,” you joke, flipping your hair.

He puts the radio on, and he hums under his breath. It’s his usual mix of classic rock, so a lot of Bon Jovi and Journey.

“So, where are we going?” You ask.

“It’s a surprise,” he says, hands gripping the steering wheel.

It throws you back to the road trip you took between to Niagara Falls. How much fun you’d had: your conflicting music tastes; taking turns to drive; angry calls from parents asking where the hell you’d disappeared to in the middle of the night.

“Last time you said that our parents nearly reported us missing.” You straighten your seatbelt, before skipping to the next track.

“Don’t worry, we shouldn’t get in too much trouble with what we’re doing today.” The corner of his lips twitch. He turns his head briefly to look at you, a perfect smoulder melts you into the leather of his flashy car. “We’re only going downtown.”

The drive feels like a montage from a movie. He swats your feet when you put them on the dashboard. You take control of the aux cord, which naturally triggers an argument because there’s only so many times September by Earth, Wind and Fire is funny.

The thirty-minute drive feels too short, because awkwardness aside, everything is seamless between the two of you. You’re mid-rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart when he parks on a street in midtown.

“Okay, what are we doing here?”

It’s a busy street in Midtown, red, brown trees overhanging the street. The sun shines through the canopy making everything seem golden.

“We’re gonna find you your dream bakery,” he says like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Your response is instantaneous. “You’re tacky and I hate you.”

Quoting that silly line from School of Rock has been your go-to line whenever Chris did something so romantic, so sweet that it could rot your teeth. Only the two of you could use _I hate you _as an alternative to _I love you. _

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he beams back at you, over his shoulder. He’s already halfway up the stairs and he’s completely unaware that he’s stopped your heart. “The real estate lady’s already here.”

A little numb from the shock, you nod. You forgot what it’s like to be constantly on your toes (in the right way). Chris is a romantic through and through, but it’s not just flowers and dinners, it’s the thoughtfulness that gets you.

Once you’re inside, the real estate agent nearly has a panic attack when she realizes she’s showing Captain America around retail spaces.

“We’re friends,” you clarify when she finally looks to you.

The word friend tastes foreign in your mouth, but that’s what this is..._right?_

“It’s her bakery,” Chris starts, “you might have heard of it—.”

You elbow him in the gut, silencing him. “So, what’s this place been used for in the past?”

The real estate agent settles down and begins speaking. Your lips press together in thought, this building isn’t speaking to you.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got two more to see,” Chris says, leaning down to your ear.

The next property is slightly closer to Downtown. Chris fixes his baseball cap as if it’s somehow going to stop people from noticing him.

“How did you even organise all this?” You ask.

He smirks. “So, I hate name-dropping myself, but sometimes it comes in handy. You’ve always encouraged me to chase my dreams, it’s high time I return the favour.”

You can’t formulate the words to respond to him, so you wander around the building. You like this one so far, but it’s _not the one_. It’s spacious, with large panelled windows. The light filters in, illuminating the dust motes as they float. The floorboards squeak with every footstep.

“How do we feel about this one?” he asks.

You nose crinkles. “The buildings nice, would need a lot of renovation and I don’t really vibe with the street.”

“Good thing, we saved the best till last,” he says.

“I’m sure the price will be extortionate.”

He shakes his head. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

_We’ll_. That’s so Chris, taking on everyone else’s problems, making them a team effort. _Don’t worry about your AP bio test, we’re gonna study loads. We’ve got it. So, what’s our plan?_ _What’s our next step? _

You hesitate for a second because this walk down memory lane has to end at some point. Chris is the one who ended your relationship — said he’d rather end it on a good note than let it decay over the distance between Boston and L.A.

You’re not quite walking hand in hand, but the back of his hand brushes against the back of yours as you walk down the street. Each brush, each “accidental” knock sends shivers down your spine and tingles in your chest. Red warning signs in your head flash: imminent danger ahead. This road is treacherous, but, god, isn’t the scenery pretty?

“Okay, so this is the last property I’m showing you two today. This is an old coffee shop. Only closed down because the owner got sick...”

You can barely hear the rest of her spiel as your eyes are instantly taken with how adorable this place is.

“I’ll let the two of you have a look,” she offers, standing back.

Chris wraps an arm around your shoulder, which is fine, _that’s a bro move. _“Okay, so imagine this place as like the perfect c&c location? All the office workers come in for their sugar and caffeine fix.”

“Now close your eyes,” he instructs, before placing one hand over your eyes, the other on your shoulder.

“Imagine the smell of frosting and snickerdoodles,” he says, before lifting his hands off. “Now open your eyes. How about this for a kitchen?”

“Oh.” Your eyes dart around, taking in the kitchen. This is a baker’s paradise. “It’s perfect.”

“The moment I saw this place online I knew it was the right fit for you. She wanted to show us this place first, but I thought it’d be better to build up to it.”

“It’s perfect,” you repeat.

You amble back to the estate agent, who sets up a meeting for you to come back and discuss further details and finances. Your cheeks ache from smiling too much.

On the way back, the excitement of it all has you rambling. Chris shares your enthusiasm. He listens, actually has input, meaningful suggestions and alternatives.

“It would be more of a coffee shop, I don’t want to really expand the cake business just yet. I like keeping that bit small, I don’t want my name to go on a cake I haven’t even seen.”

He nods. “Because you always put a little bit of yourself in them.”

“You caught me, I spit in the batter when no one’s looking.” You laugh.

“That’s gross.”

“Yeah — what’s that line in the Real Slim Shady? _Every single person is a Slim Shady lurking, he could be working at Burger King, spittin' on your onion rings.”_

“Nice flow.”

“There’s always time for me to give up on baking and drop a professional mixtape, see how that goes,” you say.

“And would the boyfriend approve of that?” Chris asks, laughing. You’re round the corner from your house now.

The joke falls flat as he’s hit with your silence. Because, honestly, you couldn’t make that silly joke with Jonathan. And sometimes, Jonathan sees you wrestling with the kids and playing silly games and you know that he thinks you’re a little bit immature.

Chris turns up the radio to drown out the sound of both of your thoughts.

When he pulls into your driveway, you linger a second too long in the passenger’s seat, before slowly opening the door. You consider inviting him in, but _that’s probably not the greatest of ideas. _Instead, you walk over to the driver’s side of the car.

“Come out,” you tell him.

Hesitant, he swings his long legs over and steps out of the car. The moment he’s standing, you throw your arms around him, pulling him to a massive hug.

“Hey man, I just wanted to say thanks for today. You gave me the push I needed.” Your head buries into his chest and he wraps his arms around you. He smells like cologne, mint and tobacco. It’s not like you to overthink a hug, but the feeling of his strong arms around you — it’s calming.

“No problem, Sweetheart.”

The hug lasts longer than it should. Most people wouldn’t ever consider hugs cheating - but oh my god, there’s too many emotions. Eventually, you extricate yourself from his grasp.

“Thanks again, I’ll see you later Chris.”

“Later, Sweetheart.”

He leans against his car, waiting for you to go inside. Just as you’re shutting the door, he waves. It’s such a silly gesture, but somehow it makes you blush.

It wasn’t a date. So, why do you feel like a schoolgirl who’s just been on their first date?

***

You’re in the middle of cleaning up and doing random bits of life admin when your phone buzzes later that evening.

**Chris: **Sweetheart, are you home? :)

**You:** Yeah! cake’s done! looks good if I say so myself

There’s no response, but about twenty minutes later, you hear a thud against your window, and another one, and another one. And you’re pretty sure you know what it is— it’s the sound of hard candy hitting your window.

You open it up, and like a perfect playback of your memories, there’s Chris, backwards baseball cap, grinning up at you.

“Haven’t we outgrown this,” you call down. “I don’t live with my parents anymore.”

“Aren’t ya gonna let me in?” He asks.

You laugh. “Climb up like you used to.”

“Seriously, Y/N?”

“You’re the one who decided not to use the doorbell,” you say as you open the window as wide as you can manage.

Chris doesn’t hesitate, immediately launches himself up the pillar and it’s within a couple of minutes that he hoists himself through your front window. You regret telling him to come up this way because the deja vu hurts.

“Shit — that’s not as easy as your parents’ house,” he says, gasping for his breath. You pull him into your room. He takes it in for a moment, eyes scanning around your sanctuary.

He walks up to your little photo corner and picks up a frame. Instinctively, you know which one. It’s a picture of you two: you’re eight and he’s nine, he’s got an arm slung around your neck and the grins you’re sporting are criminal.

“You still have this? This is from Peter Pan,” he says.

Naturally, he’d played Peter and you played Wendy. You’ve been harbouring the same silly crush since then.

“Of course,” you reply.

“I thought you would have got rid of it…”

“After you broke up with me?” You supply as his words trail off. You sigh, already tired from this tightrope walking. “You said you wanted to stay friends, this photo marks the beginning of our friendship.”

“I, uh, really made a mess of things,” he says and you can’t explain it — but something inside of you snaps.

“You wanted to break things off before you moved to LA, so you did. I don’t know what part of that is messy - you wanted a clean break and a fresh start.” You echo back the very words he’d used when he’d broken up with you. “You got that.”

“Y/N, I miss you so much and I—.”

You shake your head and hold up a hand to stop him in tracks. “No, you don’t get to do this, Chris. You don’t get to come home, years later, to tell me that you want me now. I get it, I’ve always been the back-up plan. And now that you’re twitchy to have kids and you see me, pretty enough, good enough with kids, probably doesn’t want you for your fame, meets the minimum requirements, so you’ll shoot your shot. I’m settled and now you want to rock the boat. You know that’s unfair—.”

“Y/N, come on, it’s not like that—.”

“It kinda is though. It’s been out of sight, out of mind. Why are you upset that I have a boyfriend? Do you not think I was upset when you got to Hollywood and immediately got an upgraded? I mean didn’t you announce you only wanted to date actresses because they understand your struggle and all of a sudden, it’s changed.”

“God, if there was only a way to prove to you that it’s not like that, it’s never been like that. It’s always been you, Y/N.”

The words don’t have the intended effect. You’ve imagined them before, but they hit the already tender nerve.

“Out,” you say quietly, your voice is barely above a whisper.

“What?” His eyebrows furrow together. His arms fold across his chest, defensive and shocked at how this is going. He takes a step closer to you and you stumble backwards

“Get out,” you repeat, your voice now finding some strength.

“C’mon, Y/N, can we talk?”

“I don’t think I have anything else to say to you, Chris. And I’m not really in the mood to listen.”

The look you receive from him stings. But, he bids you goodnight and leaves your room.

***

**BFF’s lil bro:** um, getting involved again, but are you okay?

**BFF’s lil bro:** I’m not here for a he said/she said, I just want to see if you’re alright

**BFF’s lil bro:** also are you still coming to our parents' anniversary party? you don’t have to come but you’re literally family

**You:** hey man! I’m okay (all things considered)— of course I wouldn’t miss it in the world. cake is being baked as we speak.

***

The moment you walk into the Evans’ house, Lisa pulls you into a large hug. _She knows about your fight. _It doesn’t surprise you, because she knew when you lost your virginity and she’s picked you up drunk from parties.

It also doesn't help that you can’t get a clean break — you’re her first grandchild’s godmother, you volunteer at the place she works, Chris’ dad took off your braces and is still your dentist. The Evans family in some capacity will always be a part of your family. Just not how you’d always planned.

“The cake is beautiful, honey,” she says, letting you go before pulling you back into another big hug. “You really outdid yourself.”

You’re quite proud of this creation. It’s a pound cake stuffed with raspberry cheesecake. You also made a berry layer cake and a cinnamon sugar chips with a fruit salad as salsa.

“It’s no big deal.” You wave her off, as she leads you into the backyard.

A few steps in, you’re immediately tackled by your godson, who throws himself at your legs. “Aunt Y/N!! I’ve missed you.”

You crouch down, now at eye level. “I’ve missed you too, bud.”

“I’ve got something to show you,” he starts, racing at the speed of light. “Uncle Chris got me a car, a real car.”

“A real car?”

“Well, not a real car, but it drives like a real car.” He tugs at your wrist, pulling you across the lawn. You coo at the car as he shows you all the ridiculous features.

“You’re my personal driver now,” you say, booing him on the nose.

You leave the kids be, wandering over to the drinks table. Chris’ eyes are fixed on you as you cross the yard. It’s hard, but you throw yourself full throttle into enjoying the party, whilst avoiding Chris. For liquid confidence, you down a beer so quickly that Scott’s face scrunches up.

“Looked like you inhaled it,” he says, leaning next to you.

“The many benefits of not having a gag reflex,” you reply with a smirk.

“God, gross,” he splutters. “I didn’t need to know that about you, Y/N.”

“C’mon, we’re best buds. You’re like my little bro.” Standing on your tiptoes, you pinch his cheek. Scott shudders and slides away from you.

“Speaking of being best buds, and I know I promised to not get involved—.”

You shake your head, laughing. “You’re constantly involved. It’s fine, it’s not fair to put you between a rock and a hard place. Anyway, he’s your brother.”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t a meatball.”

“You said it, not me.” You keep giggling, as the alcohol kicks in. It’s not enough to make you drunk, but your inhibitions are blunted.

As you chat away with Scott about Grace and Frankie, Sutton comes and grabs you.

“We’re going on the slip and slide,” she says, clutching at your arm.

“And…”

“Come, come, come, I want you to watch me.” Sutton’s eyes widen and it would be an absolute crime to say no as her little brown eyes sparkle.

Of course, Dylan is sitting on Chris’s shoulders, beckoning you over. Your legs carry you over, and pettily, you ignore Chris but give Dylan a strong hi-five.

“You ready to hit the slip and slide?” Dylan asks. “It’ll be so cool if you did it.”

“I’m not dressed for it, but I’ll watch you guys do it.” You reach your arms out for Dylan to climb down. Already wearing his swimming shorts (Spiderman, of course), he leaps down and within seconds has flown down the slide. You cheer and applause. He gets himself up and takes a bow. Behind you, Chris chuckles.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” He asks. “That’s why they love you so much.”

You shrug because even if you did want to speak to him, you wouldn’t know what to respond. He’s not wrong though, you’re never uncomfortable when you’re with kids. They believe in magic, happy endings and the power of sugar. It’s natural to gravitate to them when you’re an overgrown child.

Engaged and distracted, you cheer all the kids on as they play on. After a little while, you go inside to help Lisa cut the cake.

“You’re responsible for the increase in cavities in this town,” Chris’ dad jokes.

You smile wide, baring your teeth. “You’ve always said my teeth are perfect.”

He laughs back at you, before genuinely sighing about the state of kid’s teeth lately.

“You need to go into school like you did when we were in elementary — do the tooth brushing challenge,” you suggest, eating a slice already.

Lisa flicks you on the shoulder. “You couldn’t wait.”

You shrug, a lazy full-body shrug as you swing your legs on swinging off the edge of the counter. The two of them lead the cake out, and moments later, in comes Chris.

“I think my parents love you more than they love me,” he says, clearly having overheard the conversation.

You hum in response, wiping the crumbs of pound cake with the back of your hand.

“Mom’s taken your side in our argument,” he says.

“I don’t think it’s an argument,” you start because you’re not mad. Overwhelmed? Yes. Tired? Yes. But angry? No, but you’re frustrated that just as you’re ready to move on, just as you’ve stopped clinging onto your schoolgirl crush and childish fantasy — he comes like the tide and pulls you back to the ocean. And you’re so afraid that he’s going to spit you back onto the shore.

“You’re not angry?’ He scoots closer.

You shake your head.

He comes even closer. His hand cradles your jaw and—.

“Y/N, come quick, we’re having a water fight,” Dylan calls as he races into the kitchen.

_Saved by the bell._

The moment you step outside, you’re hit with the icy cold spray of the garden hose. The shriek that follows is involuntary.

“I thought we were gonna be throwing some water balloons, not trying to kill me.” You lunge for Karthik, who drops the hose as you chase him round. In a few strides, you grab him and throw him over your shoulder.

“Miss Y/N,” he wails, between his chuckling.

“That’s what you get for trying to kill me.” You swing him into the little kiddy pool. He lands with a splash and everyone laughs. You hold out a hand, and the little devil tries to pull you in. Going with it, you allow yourself to fall into the pool. As you stand up, your floral sundress sticks to you like wet PVA glue.

“Scott, I’m gonna steal some clothes,” you say to him, not giving him a chance to answer, before scuttling through the house, keen not to leave a puddle behind you.

You’re grumbling as you peel off the dress.

“Y/N - I got you a towel and a shirt,” Chris says, opening the door.

“I guess we don’t knock,” you mumble, staring at Chris, who’s staring at the sight of you in your wet, sodden underwear and knee socks.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” he says, covering his eyes, holding up the towel and shirt.

“Don’t pretend to be coy,” you say, arms folded across your chest. ‘It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before.”

“I’ll close my eyes,” he says, taking a seat on Scott’s bed.

“If it makes you feel better.”

You change without preamble, quick to strip and quick to put the tee that Chris has given you - which fits like a loose dress. True to his word, he keeps his eyes shut.

“You can open them now,” you say.

His eyes travel up and down your bare legs. You poke your tongue into your cheek, frozen as you watch Chris watch you.

“Just come here, will you?” He says, crooking his finger. Your legs move on their own volition until you’re sitting cross-legged in front of him.

Who moves first is a mystery, but in seconds Chris has one hand on your waist, pulling you up and the other grips a fistful of wet hair. Your lips collide. Your hands grasp for his hair as you topple onto the bed. A surprised gasp escapes you and Chris catches it in his mouth, biting at your lip.

This sparks a fuse. And suddenly, you’re burning, boiling, all this pent-up frustration and desire unfurls. It’s not sweet - you’ve always kissed sweetly, tenderly before. But you’re both overcome with this burning desperation - he pulls your hair, you pull his. His hands paw under the shirt, gripping your ass. You stumble over and he climbs over you. Your right leg locks around his hips and he cooperates by kissing you senseless and thrusting against you. He does it again and you moan in tandem.

_Shit, shit, shit —_ your brain is on fire. This is crazy, this is mad, this is, like, the worst idea you’ve ever had.

He bites your neck and you whimper. Your body clamps around him tighter. Your nails claw at his back, no doubt leaving marks. He pulls up for air, just for a second, before his tongue is back in your mouth. His left-hand goes back to your ass, pulling you flush against him.

With the thumb of his right-hand, he presses – hard and deliberate through the front of your soaked underwear with just the right pressure, in just the right spot, in just the right way —

“Any moment now, Sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear, before kissing you quiet. He still knows how to play you like a well-tuned instrument.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

To stifle the impending scream, you bite his lip as you come. As you come down from your high, you taste that familiar metallic tang — _oh my god, _you’ve drawn blood. Blinking a few times, you try to get a grip of your bearings as you collapse next to Chris.

“We need to change the sheets, shit.” You actually swear, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “Shit, I’m never going to be able to look Scott in the eye ever again. Fuck, I have a boyfriend. Oh god, I just cheated.”

He props himself up on his elbow, looking down at you.

“You look completely unfazed for someone who just nearly had sex with his ex-girlfriend who is not single in his younger brother’s room with our parents downstairs.”

“I’m just planning our escape,” he says. “You go down. I’m gonna come downstairs in like fifteen.”

He’s fucked you stupid so all you can do is nod.

You poke your head on out the door, and stride down the stairs, ignoring the tremor that’s still in your legs. A couple of deep breaths settle your breathing as you unlatch the back door.

“I stripped his bed, threw his bedsheets in my cupboard and I’ll buy him a new mattress,” he whispers to you when he finally comes downstairs. You blush and splutter on your drink.

“Can we agree not to talk about that?” You whisper back to him.

His bottom lip is visibly swollen, which makes you cringe.

“I think we should definitely talk about this, sweetheart.”

***

You bring a range of cupcakes to class: blueberry, triple chocolate, butterscotch and vanilla. Baking has always been how you deal with any anxiety and stress, so after yesterday, you’ve baked up a storm. You’re breaking up with Jonathan, there’s no doubt about that. The question of how is gnawing away at you. Do you wait or do you break up with him over the phone?

Having barely slept, you’re bleary-eyed and bitter. Rehearsal is nothing short of a disaster. Ayesha refuses to speak she’s taken a vow of silence. Dylan is wearing a Captain America t-shirt, of course. Dylan’s hyper as hell, fidgety and menacing — which means he’s been pulling on Maddy’s pigtails. Maddy’s a whiner, so everything Dylan says or does to her, she makes a point of noting down and you have an inkling she’s going to sue him.

“Do you guys want to put on a bad show?” You ask hands in your hair, exasperated.

“I don’t think anyone ever wants to put on a bad show,” is Neil’s wisecrack.

You bury your face in your hands. And as if the day couldn’t worse, Chris strolls in. You’d been praying that he’d give you space, but that’s wishful thinking.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late. How’re we doing?”

“Miss Y/N’s not doing too good,” Karthik warns. “She’s pretty grouchy today.”

You groan. “I’m gonna quit. You guys are gonna kill me.”

“We were only joking,” Sutton says, now at your side. “We love you...”

“_We_ do,” Chris says, earnest look on his face.

“Shall we have a cupcake break?” he offers, eyeing the tin on the back desk.

There’s a chorus of nods and yes pleases. Trained in a way that would make Pavlov proud, the kids immediately sit in a circle and Maddy grabs some tissues.

Chris tries to pass out the cupcakes, but you quickly hold his wrist.

“Sorry. They’ve all got their dietary requirements,” you say, before divvying up the cupcakes appropriately.

Once sugared and settled, you all agree to sort out this mess of a play. Chris takes one half of them and you take the other, running to parallel read-throughs on either side of the studio.

When the session is done, Chris waits with you while all the parents pick up their kids.

“Sooo,” he says, turning to you, “can we talk?”

“I have a wedding cake to finish decorating,” you say, eyes on your feet. “But I’ll text you when I’m done if you’re still awake.”

“Sure.”

***

Baking has always been pretty therapeutic for you, but your mind flits and flutters. _God, I’m a bitch. _Trying to articulate what you want to say to Chris in your head is driving you insane— how do you explain over a decade’s worth of feelings? You nearly mess up the levelling of the cake. It takes a few hours, but you finish your masterpiece. It’s not your best work, but it’s up to standard.

Sitting in your car, you hold your phone, fingers hovering over Chris’ name. It’s silly, but you type the first thing that comes to mind and, of course, it’s a stupid movie quote.

**you:** waiting for you is like waiting for rain in this drought. useless and disappointing.

The three dots last forever, before your phone pings.

**chris**: did you just text me a quote from a cinderella story?

**chris:** shit, is that how you actually feel?

Within seconds, your phone rings.

“Are you home yet?” He asks, without greeting.

“I’m about to drive home now, I’ll be there in 5 minutes.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then.”

You hum along to the radio as you drive through town and back home. Chris is already standing at your door. You rescue your keys from the depth of your bag.

“You’re already here.”

“You texted me,” is all he replies.

“Well, I’m hungry,” you say, trying to divert the conversation, “I’m gonna make enchiladas. Do you want some?”

“Sure,” he replies as he follows you into the house.

You shuck off your shoes by the door and beeline straight for the kitchen. On autopilot, you start pulling out the ingredients. His tense, shoulders squared and tights, fists resting on the counter.

“There’s beer in the fridge,” you point to Chris, who does as he’s told.

Speedily, you chop up the onions and garlic.

“Can you help me fry these?” You say. Obedient, Chris sits up from the barstool and comes around to stand next to you.

“Sweetheart, you can’t text me _that _and then to pretend everything’s normal,” Chris says finally.

“Don’t call me that,” you spit back. “‘I’m not your sweetheart.”

“I’ve always called you that,” he says.

You put down the knife, look up at him, really look at him. “I don’t think you should. I just — you’ve done this before, been the other man.”

“She was in the process of getting divorced,” he excuses himself, lamely.

“Why’d it end?” You ask and then sniffle as you slice the onions.

“The thing that ends all my relationships — I’m in never present the way they want me to be. It gets to the point where we ought to commit and I can’t—.”

“So, you have commitment issues…”

“I can’t commit because I keep thinking about you. Thinking about all the stupid plans we made — getting a big house round the corner from the church, with four kids.”

“But the youngest was going to be adopted,” you fill in. “Because Shanna’s the best decision your parents ever made.”

“Exactly.”

You sigh. 

“We can’t hold onto a silly dream we came up with when we were eighteen and drunk,” you say, standing over the stove and careful to avoid eye contact. “I shouldn’t have texted you that stupid quote from that stupid movie - but since we're being honest that’s how I’ve felt for years.”

“And you’ve been trying to move on,” Chris fills in.

“I really like Jonathan. And I’ve fucked that up.”

“We could—.”

You shake your head. “Any relationship born out of infidelity is literally cursed and doomed to fail. My sister’s the perfect example.”

“So, what do you want?”

“Space.”

“Anything, but that,” he says, holding onto your wrists.

“I don’t think we should be friends. Exes are meant to be exes. It ended for a reason. I think it’s time we accept that.”

His jaw clenched. “And you’re sure this is what you want?”

Slowly, you nod.

“I won’t stay where I’m not wanted,” is Chris’ response.

“It’s not like that—, but you’re cut off by Chris turning his back to you, unlatching the front door and closing it so quietly that you might have felt better if he slammed it.

***

Putting your life back on track is deceptively easy. You have your break up speech memorised by the time Jonathan gets back from Nepal. He’s pretty nice about, super mature and kind, even though he's fully within his rights to throw a fit. He picks up his stuff, kisses you goodbye on your cheek and he’s gone and it’s like he was never there.

Missing Chris is a different ballgame. The stupidest part of it all is that the person you want to comfort you and cheer you up is him. 

The other issue, of course, comes when you’re in the youth theatre and you’re dealing with actual tears. And it turns out that sugar can’t cure sadness. In fact, this week’s brownies and blondies are neglected.

“I’m sorry guys, but Mr Chris is busy and he can’t help anymore.”

Sutton’s using your dress as a snot rag as she sobs into your belly.

“Did you two fight?” Neil asks, and the shock makes you stand up straight. “My mom said you guys dated in high school.”

You wrinkle your nose. Another reason to dislike Neil’s mom. As if being an anti-vaxxer and anti-frosting isn’t enough.

“Oh, em gee,” Maddy shrieks and the sound of her voice reverberates around the theatre. “I knew it! I thought he had a crush on you.”

Ayesha nods. “We did.”

“You guys are sooo nosey,” you say, already feeling the heat rise to your cheeks and your ears.

Ayesha whispers into Maddy’s ear. She grins with glee.

“Alright, you guys enough about me. Should we practice the fight scene again?”

***

The week after, you come in to find them all huddled in the corner of the studio.

“Hey, guys! I hope we’ve all learnt our lines this week,” you call. “I’m gonna start withholding treats if you haven’t tried to learn them.”

As soon as they see you, there’s a quick flurry as they hide whatever they’re looking at. Then, you're met with guilty, plastered smiles. Your eyes narrow.

“What are y’all hiding?” You ask, holding your arm out.

The battle commenced. They stare you down, and you keep your gaze fixed on them, unwavering.

It’s Karthik, who cracks. “We were looking at your old yearbook.”

He says the words so quickly, you nearly miss them. Dylan gives him a shove, which earns him a glower.

Neil passes it to you. “I got my mom’s old yearbook.”

“We were looking for photos of you.”

“You were _Prom Queen_,” Maddy points out.

“Oh my god,” you say, flipping through the pages.

“There’s a cute photo of you and Mr Chris in a play,” Sutton adds.

“You guys should get back together,” Ayesha chimes.

You roll your eyes and snap the book shut. You pass the book back to Neil. “You give this back to your mom and we will start with our run-through of the first act.”

“But Miss Y/N—.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “Don’t test me, you guys.”

***

This self-love, single healing kick you’re on...is frankly shit. But you’re committed.

You pull out your high school memory box, which is a graveyard for your relationship for Chris. Inside is his class ring, an old pats jersey of his that you can’t remember whether you stole or he gave to you and his copy of Romeo and Juliet from English Lit that you guys had annotated with weird inside jokes.

After rehearsal one evening, you trundle down to Lisa’s office, hoping to catch her before she leaves.

“Hey — I’ve got some stuff I wanted to give Chris.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Chris has his mother’s smile, where it illuminates their entire face when they’re truly happy. “Is it the breakup box?”

“Uh,” you stutter, the words catching in your throat. You want the ground to swallow you whole. “Kinda. It’s only a few years late.”

So, maybe it’s a decade late.

“I really thought that you two would…” her voice trails off and she has that painful, wry smile on her face.

“I thought so too,” is all you manage as you leave the box on her desk.

***

You’re reviewing your diary in your office when Lydia walks in with a devilish grin.

“I’ve just spent the last five minutes watching two of your ex-boyfriends in a deep convo,” she says.

Your stomach instantly churns. “Oh god, which ones?”

“Hot actor and hot doc,” she says.

“Seriously?” You scramble up to peer out the littleWhy didn’t you didn’t you window in your door and lo and behold, there are Chris and Jonathan engaged in a civil conversation.

You sink your head and turn back to Lydia. “I’m hiding in here until they’re gone. I’m not here if anyone asks I’m...”

“You’re at a meeting with your accountant,” Lydia lies easily for you.

“That sounds believable.”

_God hates you. _

An entire, long, painful fifteen-minute pass before Lydia returns.

“The coast is clear,” she says. “Also, only Jonathan asked to see you.”

_What about Chris? _You want to ask, but he’s respecting the space you asked for. But, seeing him so close, makes you forget _why _you'd asked for it in the first place.

***

A few days later, you meet Jonathan at a coffee shop downtown, outside the hospital.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he says, like a perfect gentleman, who isn’t angry at all.

His apathetic, practical response makes you feel like this break up might have been inevitable at some point.

There’s a little bit of mundane small talk. You ask him about his trip to Nepal. He shows you the adorable pictures of the children he operated on. You fill him in on the horrors of organising a play.

“So…” his voice trails off for a second. “I guess I invited you here. I, uh, had wanted to talk about getting back together again—.”

Involuntarily, you let out a squeak.

“But then I got a call from Chris. He wanted to meet and apologise.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t give him your details. I—.”

He places his coffee cup back on the coaster. “He looked me up online. I appreciated the gesture. He tried to convince me to get back together with you.”

You’re at a loss for words. You feel like a deer caught in headlights.

Jonathan continues. “I had to ask him why he didn’t pursue a relationship with you if he loved you so much. He told me that you had turned him down.”

“It wasn't the right thing to do,” you say. Your fingers thread through your hair.

“Here’s one thing I know about you. Sometimes you get so narrow and focused on doing things the correct way, or the right way that you don’t do what’s right for you,” he says.

You squint as the cogs in your brain spin. “Are you giving me your _blessing?” _

He laughs drily. “It occurred to me that you might beat yourself up forever if I didn’t.”

“Wow,” you say, brain to mouth filter currently out of order, “you’re really something aren’t ya?”

He shrugs. “Just don’t invite me to the wedding — I don’t think my pride could take it.

***

It’s getting closer and the stress is racking up. Your first dress rehearsal is mediocre at best. Lines are forgotten, Dylan refuses to wear one of his costumes, Ayesha doesn’t project her voice so you can’t hear a single line she says. Maddy is a backseat director, giving unwanted criticism to her castmates.

When it’s done, you look to Lisa.

“They’re never usually this bad, usually they’re amazing,” you start, trying to explain the train wreck that just unfolded, “but they’ve been pretty terrible since Chris left.”

It hurts to admit it, but it’s true. This plan is damn ambitious, and it probably required more than one adult, supervising and guiding them.

She doesn’t respond.

“What are my grovelling odds?” You ask her.

Lisa puts a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“You know he won’t say no to you.”

***

**You:** hi, I know I’ve been a bit...sticky and the queen of mixed signals lately. could we have a c&c?

**Chris:** when and where?

**You:** beggars can’t be choosers, whenever you’re free (I’m home all day) and whatever location suits you best

**Chris:** I’ll come to yours - say 1? you can make me lunch if you’re begging ;)

**You:** aha, sure! anything you fancy in particular?

**Chris:** surprise me :)

***

When Chris arrives at your place, you’re wearing a chocolate stained apron and there’s a smattering of flour on your nose.

“Um, hi, hi, come in,” you say, beckoning him in.

“I was joking about lunch, you look like the kitchen ate you,” he says.

“I’m mostly done now. Just give me a sec to sort myself out. Also, there are cinnamon rolls in the oven, so don’t let them burn.”

“I’ll burn them by looking at them,” he says, which is _typical. _You’d tried giving him cooking lessons, but Chris never took them seriously — they always ended up in flirting and food fights.

You jog up the stairs, change into a clean t-shirt and some ‘hopefully’ clean sweatpants. Chris is sitting at the island in your kitchen, appraising all the food on the table.

“What’s all this?”

“Well, I made a tomato paprika soup with mini grilled cheeses. Then, I was like shit what if you want something healthy, so then I made chicken pesto pasta.”

“So, a starter, a main and cinnamon roll for dessert,” he finishes off for you. “Which means you’re stressing.”

“Um, understatement of the year,” you reply, before pulling out the card the kids had made. “It’s a please come back card from all six of us, me and the gang.”

His nose scrunches as he reads the card. Then, he laughs, no doubt entertained by the interesting drawings, spelling and messages.

“I’m sorry Miss Y/N made you sad. I think she’s sorry about whatever she did,” he reads. “Wait, _you’re_ sorry? I thought I was here to apologize.”

You freeze, the soup ladle falling back into the pot as it slips out of your hands.

Your face twists with confusion. “Well, I’m sorry for pinning my shitty, cheating behaviour on you. I’m sorry for not communicating and then lashing out at you, because of my insecurities,” you start, as you serve out Chris’ starter to this ridiculous, three-course lunch.

“So, what exactly are you sorry for?” you ask, regaining your senses. You manage to serve out a portion.

“I was an asshole. I didn’t respect the fact that you were in a relationship. And everything you said in your room was right, why would you believe that I never stopped loving you when I’ve given you absolutely no indication,” he explains with a soft, earnest voice.

You push his bowl and plate towards him.

“I mean, it takes two to tango. I just can’t get over the fact you spoke to Jonathan—.”

“He told you?”

“I mean you met... at _my store_?” You ask, dumbfounded that he thought you wouldn’t find out.

“You don’t tend to go in on Thursdays, plus it was the only place he’d meet me. Said that out of respect for you, it’d be the one place he wouldn’t punch me. He slipped the waitress a twenty to not tell you.”

_Thank God for Lydia. _

“He said that he wouldn’t get back together with me, because he could never love me the way you do. I don’t even understand why you wanted him to get back together with me.”

“I want whatever makes you happy,” he says. It’s funny how those six words mean more than _I love you**. **_

“You’re tacky and I hate you,” you say, nearly sobbing.

Chris steps round the island and pulls you into a hug. He wraps his arms around you. Your head nestles into the crook of his neck and you melt further into his hold.

“This is cute and all and I’m sure my mom’s gonna dust off her old wedding plans,” Chris interrupts, letting you go, “but I think the cinnamon rolls are burning.”


	2. (high school) sweethearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the prequel nobody asked for

The summer between sophomore year and junior year is when you get bit by the baking bug. It’s not infectious by any means, but you have tortured your friends with goodies (failures and successes). Your parents have complained more than once or twice about how this is affecting their waistlines.

It’s a quiet Tuesday morning; sun shining, warm, a perfect’s summer day — and you’ve already trashed the kitchen. You haven’t quite got a grasp of cleaning up as you go along. Your mom has nearly given up on you, but whatever treats you make seem to soften her up.

The house is empty, except for you and the girls, giggling to the point of where you’re in pain. Anna and Tara are sitting at the island counter, eating your latest batch of cookies as you pull out the two tiers of the cake out of the oven.

“So, instead of icing Happy Birthday Chris onto the cake, why don’t you just write out how you feel?” Anna says, stabbing a piece of the trial run cake with her fork.

You roll your eyes, leaving the cake to cool on the counter.

“Not this again.” You spin around, to take a seat on the counter and grab a cookie.

You make a mental note to reduce the amount of sugar in your snickerdoodle recipe — it’s nearly crossing the boundary of too sweet.

“Y/N, he’s spent the last six months calling you sweetheart,” Tara adds.

“As a joke because everyone keeps saying we’re a couple,” you start.

“Mike asked you out and you said no,” Anna says between bites.

“So?”

“Mike, by everyone’s standards is the coolest, hottest guy in school. He’s the cute football player, you’re a cute cheerleader…”

“So, I’m vapid now? Date guys for their stereotype? And being a cheerleader in our school means chickenshit.”

“The main issue is that you say no to everyone who’s ever asked!” Tara exclaims.

You’re not sure who this everyone is, because you’ve only ever been asked out by the one guy. And, he’s really nice and sweet, he’s just not..._it. _

“I’m waiting for Mr Right,” you say staunchly.

You’re fully aware that Mr Right is a concept from all the romcoms and romance novels you read. It probably wasn’t the wisest idea to steal your mom’s Mills and Boon’s bodice rippers — your head has been filled with fantasies of rich dukes and princes sweeping servant girls off their feet. You want that heart racing, mind-consuming sort of love...the love to end all loves. You know it’s childish, you know it’s unrealistic, but _the heart wants what the heart wants._

“When a boy throws rocks at your window and climbs into your bedroom — I’m pretty sure that’s a big indicator that he’s your Mr Right.” Tara buries her face in her hands.

It probably won’t help matters to correct Tara that he’s actually been throwing hard candy at your window.

“I was trying to make him understand the struggles of oasis vs blur — the battle of Britpop,” you explain. “And we realised that our moms listen in on our calls.”

Your friends look at you with a mixture of confusion and horror.

“We’re just friends. He doesn’t like me, he’s always talking about Jenna.”

Anna rolls her eyes. “To make you jealous!”

You arch an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Like that’s a tactic that people actually use. That’s just the plot of all the movies we watched this summer.”

“You’re in denial, there’s no convincing you.” Anna sighs, before snapping her fingers. “Right, you finish decorating this cake. Then we need to get changed because we promised Mrs E we’d help her decorate — while the guys keep him out of the house.” Anna slaps her hands against her thighs, bringing you all back on track.

Once the cake cools, you focus on decorating. The girls help you make the icing, which you smooth over the marble cake. You squint as you pipe the birthday message.

“Looks good,” Tara comments, grabbing her pink disposable camera. “Let me take a pic of you and your masterpiece before the boys devour it.”

***

The surprise party is pretty small; it’s all the usual suspects.

“You baked this cake, sweetheart?” Chris asks, mouth full of cake, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

Your heart flutters. So maybe your friends have a point — you’ve had a horrendous crush on Chris Evans for just about _forever. _

“The girls helped, but yeah — it’s the biggest cake I’ve ever made.”

“It’s sooo _goooood.” _He takes another bite. “I wasn’t so sure about the croissants you made last week.”

His happiness melts you like butter. You can’t explain why but you’re always so anxious for his reactions, jittery, full of anticipation.

“Croissants are hard and you didn’t let them rest in the fridge for long enough.” You fold your arms across your chest.

“Well, if I’m driving you to school, I’ll be expecting croissants in the morning.”

You roll your eyes and shove him. “As if. They take forever to make.”

“That’s the price of a lift, sweetheart.”

You scoff. “I’ll walk, thanks.”

***

The first day of junior year rolls around pretty quickly. Summer draws to a close and gone are the endless pool parties at Tyler’s and the barbecues at the Evan’s.

You’re grabbing your lunch and Tupperware from the kitchen as Chris’ horn blares from outside. You roll your eyes as you shut the front door behind you.

“We’re gonna have to end this arrangement if you’re going to take forever getting ready every morning.” Chris pokes his head out of the driver’s seat window.

Shuffling to the other side of the road, you manoeuvre into the car with all your goodies.

“Well, I was making your chocolate croissants—.”

“You did not.”

“Fresh and everything,” you say, placing a container in his lap. “Don’t get used to it, this is a first-day treat.”

Why are you bending over backwards to impress Chris? It’s just goofy, silly, Chris Evans.

He takes a bite as he revs the engine. “Shiiiit. These are so fucking good. Y/N, what the fuck, I love you. Thanks, man.”

Hearing those words sets you off — heart pounding in your chest, mind racing away with fantasies you’ve been trying to suppress. You can’t get out of the car fast enough when you finally pull into the car parking lot.

Just a little space. You just need a little space to clear your head.

Luckily, you’re in different homerooms. Just as you’re scooting away, he calls your name.

“See ya later.”

***

After a busy first two weeks of school, you spend your Friday night, Weezer playing in the background, a mountain of homework spread out in front of you, daydreaming.

Mid highlighting, you hear a tap on your window. Before you even think about it, you’ve pulled up the window and you’re looking down at Chris.

“Y/N, I’ve got a surprise for you,” he all but yells.

You beckon him up. The last part is always the hardest, so you lever him onto your desk.

You shush him before he even speaks. “Your Mom is pretty chill but my mom will kill us both if she catches you in here.”

“I got us tickets to see the new Disney Movie — Mulan tomorrow.”

“What if I had plans?” You ask, filing away the homework you’d brought out.

Chris takes off his shoes, before sprawling out on your bed.

“Cancel them — you’ve been wanting to see this movie for ages. Plus, you’re my only friend who’ll watch a cartoon movie with me and not make fun of me when I cry.”

“I will make fun of you.” You place your hands on your hips.

“Sure, you will sweetheart.” Chris pressed on as you roll your eyes at him. “Also, we’re well overdue some Chris and Y/N time.”

You cast him a pointed look, as you take a seat on the foot of the bed. Your bare legs brush against his jeans. “You drive me to school every day.”

“It’s a five-minute ride of just us two before we pick up Tyler. You can’t deny me my Y/N time.”

The goofy smile he’s sending your way melts any residual resistance. “What time is the viewing?”

“I’ll pick you up at 11.30 and maybe you can bake some cupcakes. We’ll do homework after so you don’t feel so guilty for having fun—.”

“I don’t feel guilty about having fun!” You throw a pillow his way.

“Yes, you do Miss Overachiever!” Chris shoves you with his feet.

“Get out before my mom catches you,” you say, pointing to the window.

“Sure, sure, but be ready when I come to get you tomorrow and I’m expecting great things — maybe the strawberry buttercream cupcakes again — those were out of this world.” His eyes roll back as he fantasises about the cupcakes. Those had been a hit.

You laugh. “You’ll get whatever I bake.”

“Oh, or maybe like a pie. I’d be down for like an Apple pie. But I like the idea of coffee and cupcakes - a c&c session.”

You shoo him off and watch as he scales back out the window.

“G’night Chris!” You wave.

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart,” he shouts before quickly scurrying away from your house.

***

“You’re brave to risk your life getting in the car with Chris,” his mom jokes, as you kick off your shoes.

“Look, Y/N’s alive in one piece,” Chris says, halfway up the stairs.

“Only three near-death experiences,” you quip.

“How was the movie?” Lisa asks.

“I cried — it was amazing,” you say.

“Did Chris cry?” She asks.

“I did not,” he says, at the exact same time that you say, “he did.”

Lisa laughs. “Well, what are you guys doing this afternoon?”

“Trig homework and then studying for our history test on Monday,” you answer.

“Well, leave the door open,” she warns.

You can feel the heat rush to your cheeks, whereas Chris laughs — probably because he doesn’t see you like that _at all_. Upstairs, his room is its usual state of mess.

“Why are we studying at yours when my room is much tidier?” You ask, picking up a shirt and throwing it straight into his laundry hamper.

“Scott said he missed you and said that he wanted whatever goodies you were gonna give me.”

Your heart swells. You walk out the door and down the corridor to Scott’s room.

“Where’s my favourite middle schooler?” You ask.

He jumps up from his bed to give you a high five.

“Y/N!”

“I baked some apple pie and some cupcakes - go grab some before this cretin eats it all. Then come hang with us - you have to fill me in on the struggle of middle school.”

“Now Scott’s gonna eat all the pie,” Chris huffs.

“Let him!” You hold out your hand, blocking Chris.

“Excuse me, but I have been patiently waiting for my pie,” he complains.

You ignore him, pulling out your US history flashcards.

“How should we go about this?”

“Pass them over, I don’t remember any precise details about the war of independence. I’ll quiz you first. Hearing you explain it all will make it stick,” he says, as you place your nearly handwritten flashcards in his palm.

You giggle and gesticulate your way through the answers. Overall, more time is spent laughing and teasing each other than actual studying, but by some godly miracle - the facts seem to stick.

***

With Homecoming around the corner, besides the drive to school — you don’t see Chris. You love to stay busy, but you’ve overwhelmed yourself with so much stuff that even baking has taken a bit of a back burner. Last night, you put aside the homework and distracted yourself by making a croquembouche. Your parents nearly wept at the state of their kitchen, but the croquembouche looked amazing.

When you make it to lunch, all your friends are sat round your usual table and someone is sitting in your spot between Chris and Anna.

Wordlessly, Tara shuffles so you can share her seat. You unveil your masterpiece from its box.

“Y/N, what the hell is this? It looks so good!” One of the boys says. You can barely pay attention to who’s speaking as you watch Chris and Miss Seat Stealer engage in their own conversation. Miss Seat Stealer’s name is Jenna — you guys have known her since middle school. She’s nice enough. Chris has had a horrifying crush on since freshman year but she’s rebuffed any of his advances. Yet, now they’re tilted towards one another, oblivious to the kerfuffle of the croquembouche.

“It’s a croquembouche, also known as a French wedding cake — but basically it’s a tower of cream puffs,” you explain.

Neighbouring tables always take notice of the treats you bring your friends, but this has captured the entire cafeteria’s attention.

“So, do you wanna give me the 411?” you ask Tara, voice quiet.

“He asked her to homecoming,” she whispers back in your ear.

You immediately grab a puff to stuff in your mouth and blink back any of the tears prickling your eyes.

“Whatever,” Tara says out loud. “We’re so over it.”

“What are we over?” Anna asks.

“I’ll tell you later — we’re having a girls' night at mine this evening.”

“After cheer practice,” you add.

“Oh, Y/N — where did you buy this cream puff thing?” Chris asks, finally unblinded to what’s been going on.

“I made it,” you reply with your usual smile, saccharine sweet.

“Really? Did you use a pastry mix?” Jenna asks.

Tyler elbows you as he laughs. “Y/N, use a packet mix? As if. Don’t get her started in her Betty Crocker isn’t even a real woman rant.”

You can feel the heat rush to your cheeks. “She’s a marketing ploy.”

Petty and angry on your behalf, Anna leans over to the table behind you.

“Can you tell Mike to come over,” she says to one of the girls sitting behind you.

Your eyes widen and shake as soon as you hear her. A few moments, tall, golden boy Mike appears at your table.

“Hey Partner,” he says, referring to the fact that you’re chem lab partners. He’d grabbed the seat next to you at the beginning of the year.

You smile coyly. He’s a lovely guy. Dreamy, nice, pretty smart too - but he doesn’t make you laugh like Chris does, he doesn’t sing show tunes with you like Chris does and he’s probably way too cool to watch Disney Movies with you on a Saturday and pretend that he’s not crying.

“Hey, try some of the croquembouche I made last night.” You gesture to the middle of the table.

“From scratch,” Tyler adds.

You pat Tyler’s knee, while Mike leans over, his legs nudging into your back.

He pops it into his mouth. “Damn, these are good. I always see you bring snacks in — I thought your mom made them.”

You shake your head. “Nah, I like baking.”

“So that’s why you’re so good at chem lab.”

“My measuring skills are on point — that’s why my titrations are perfect.”

You entertain him in some idle chatter, well aware Chris’ eyes are on you. You’re embarrassed by the fact that you’ve sunken to trying to make him jealous — but _god _you’re tied up in knots of your own feelings.

You like Chris. You’re sure Chris knows that you like him. Chris knows that you know that he knows. And yet, he calls you sweetheart as a joke, climbs into your bedroom like some kind of modern Romeo and then he asks another girl to Homecoming?

_Whatever._

***

Anna’s sitting on your desk — telling you, Tyler and Zack some story that you’re not listening to. You’re quickly trying to smash through yesterday’s chem homework — it’s not due for another two days, but time is precious.

Your teacher doesn’t even bother shutting you up for announcements — but the whole class shuts each other up when the speaker announces the nominees for homecoming court. You keep chipping away at balancing the equations — until you hear your name.

Everyone’s eyes turn to you and it prickles.

Anna whacks your shoulder.

“Who even nominated me?” You ask.

“The entire crew and like tonnes of other people,” Anna chips in.

“I’m not even popular,” you say.

Zach scoffs. “Bullshit — everyone knows you. You’re the nicest girl in school.”

At lunch, Tara and Anna announce themselves as your campaign managers.

“Alright, while these two work out their campaign strategy that I shall not be getting involved with — I made gingerbread last night.”

Before you’ve even put the container in the middle of the table, hands reach out to grab some cookies.

“Y’all are vultures,” you say.

“You keep getting better,” Tyler says.

“Can we start putting requests in?” Chris asks. You shove his shoulder.

“No.”

“But seriously though,” Tara says, crumbs spilling from her mouth. “Campaign strategy: cookies for everyone.”

“Seriously guys, I’m already way over my head with this CV buffing for college applications — this will be the death of me.”

“We’ll all come to yours — make a tonne of cookies over the weekend. And it’ll be cute — we haven’t all hung out together properly since Summer,” Anna says as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

***

Your kitchen is a full-fledged war zone. Your friends have made an assembly line. Tyler has been relegated to boxing cookies, but he’s eating half as many as he boxes.

The air is thick and a little dusty. There’s flour everywhere and it smells sweet. Anna’s taken control of your stereo, so she’s blasting TLC. One by one, your friends filter out, giving their excuses. Soon, it’s just you, the mess and Chris.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “we’ll clean this right up.”

_We._

Of course, he flicks flour on your face, right after he’s stunned you with his kindness.

_Idiot._

“Dude.” You shove his shoulder, and he laughs, throwing his head back. He spins around and throws a dishcloth into your face.

You huff, as you slide the cleaning spray his way.

And it’s so silly, _so stupid, _how your heart races as he dances around your kitchen, wiping at the surfaces.

“So, you’re going to homecoming with Jenna?” You say, finally broaching the topic.

“Aren’t you proud I finally had the balls to ask my crush out?” He’s smiling, chest puffed and he might as well have stabbed you.

Your lips pinch together.

“I’m sure someone will ask you,” he continues and that’s a kick to the gut. “They’d be stupid not to.”

It’s not like you can say _I wanted you to ask me you, idiot._

You shrug. “I’m sure I’ll survive whatever happens.”

***

The joy of having a crammed timetable of school and activities is that it leaves minimal time to dwell on thoughts and even worse, feelings. After baking the cookies, you managed to convince your mom to drive you to school to help you unload them. She doesn’t ask why Chris can’t help and you certainly don’t offer that you’re trying to avoid him.

Monday’s are good — your timetable is Chris free. You have Homecoming Committee at Lunch and cheer practice after school.

If you wish a crush away hard enough — will it disappear?

In chemistry, while you’re slipping on your goggles, Mike strolls into class.

“Hey, Y/N — have you got a date to homecoming?”

“Nope, nobody’s asked me,” you reply, a tad too candidly.

“Would you be up for being my date?” He asks.

The image of Chris flashes in your head for a second.

“I’d love to.” You smile.

***

It much be from sheer exhaustion, but you wake up with a cracking fever and ache-y absolutely everywhere. Your mom takes one look at you, as you try to get ready for school and sends you right back to bed.

You don’t know where the day goes as you slip in and out of your slumber. By the time evening rolls around, you’re already feeling much better.

Then, you hear the familiar thud of hard candy hitting your window. Your heart plummets as you get up from the bed to pull the window open.

“Chris?” You ask. “Are you okay?”

“I came to ask you the same thing,” he says, before launching up the pillar up to your bedroom. You give him a hand and help him manoeuvre into your room. “You never miss school, you must have been a death’s door.”

“I think it was just tiredness,” you say, trying to keep your voice down.

“Well, I was worried,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I got you all the work you missed.”

He yanks out the paper from the backpack before tossing it onto your desk. Your heart skips a beat, considering that you only share a handful of classes — he’s gone out of his way to get this for you.

“Thanks, man.”

“I know how you get stressed about these kinds of things.”

“Honestly, thanks so much,” you repeat.

You shuffle back, as he joins you on your bed. Your wearing pyjama shirts and a ratty shirt from middle school. You’ve never cared before how you’d dress in front of Chris, but now, you wished you liked pretty and together like Jenna probably would.

“Okay, so what gossip did I miss?” You ask.

“Well, Mike said he was gonna ask you to homecoming.”

“Swell,” is all you say, you want to see a reaction, you want to see that it rankles him too.

“Would you go with him?” Chris asks, eyebrows knitting together.

You blink. “He already asked and I said yes.”

His eyes widen and your stomach flutters.

“I-.” He stumbles over his own words. “I should let you rest up. Get well soon, sweetheart.”

His reaction tastes bitter.

***

Homecoming comes around and after having your mom and your sister get you ready — you’re completely underwhelmed. You’re channelling a Kate Moss look - white slip dress, red lipstick, black strappy heels. You feel like a child playing dress-up.

As soon as you arrive, you ditch Mike to dance with your girls. You focus purely on them, dancing to your favourite songs. You don’t want to give Chris the satisfaction of even thinking that you care — he and his date can do what they like.

You’re so over this stupid crush.

Except, you’re totally not.

Mike steals you back from your friends, plies you with a couple of drinks from the spiked punch. He’s pretty fun to dance with, in the sense that he’s a terrible dancer, but he keeps his hands to himself. Or rather, his hands seem to be punching the air, wrestling an invisible octopus, which has you in stitches.

Mid-dance, the principal hits the microphone and clears his throat. When Mike wins king, it’s no surprise — everyone votes for the star running back. You’re not expecting a win — so you’re absolutely stunned when your name is called.

The tiara is cheap and plastic and doesn’t feel as have as glamorous as it does in the movies. Maybe, you’d be more excited if it was Chris. It’s a chill, slow dance and Mike’s hands feel heavy against your waist.

***

The point that you dare look for Chris is when September comes on. Because as the anthem of your friendship, no matter how much you want to protest, there’s nobody else you rather dance with.

Your eyes scan the room — you can’t see him. You bite the bullet to ask Tyler where he went.

“Dude, Jenna broke up with him. I think he went home.”

The combo of drunk and in love apparently makes you reckless and bold. Without too much trouble, you slip out of the dance and begin your power walk home.

The beer jacket helps you to ignore the chilly September weather as you walk the busy streets. Chris house is only a ten-minute walk, but once you factor in the heels.

You’ve got a one-track mind at this point — comfort your over-sensitive best friend. When you make it to his street, you're just about to ring his doorbell — when something catches the corner of your eye.

_Shit, is that a body on the neighbour’s front yard? Shit, is that Chris?_

You jog across the street, and lo and behold, it’s Chris. He’s got his hands tucked behind his head.

“Chris?” You nudge his leg with your foot.

_He’s not dead, that’s a good start. _

“Sweetheart,” he mumbles.

“Are you okay? Tyler told me what happened.”

“That Jenna broke up with me because she thought I liked you more than I like her.”

You reach out a hand to pull him up.

“Well, why didn’t you set her straight?” You say.

Chris takes your hand but pulls you down to him onto the dry, prickly grass.

You prop yourself up, hugging your knees.

“Congrats, by the way,” he says, evading the question. “We all knew you’d win.”

“Yeah, it’s not as great as the movies make it out to be,” you say.

“Homecoming sucked,” Chris says.

“Yeah, it kinda did,” you say.

“You know what would have made it suck less?”

“A better DJ?” You joke.

“Nah, if we’d gone together,” he says.

You hold your breath.

“As friends or as like a legit date?” You ask, eyes searching his.

He sits upright.

“Do you ever think about what we’d be like - you and me, y’know, together?” Chris asks.

“All the time,” you answer, the words leaving your mouth before you process them.

Chris’s hand settles on your jaw, cradling it. Your eyes shut before the impact and then it happens — you’re kissing your best friend. Your noses brush before you tilt your head slightly. Lips yield into lips, the taste of tequila and fruit punch.

_How long have you dreamed of this moment?_

It takes a few seconds for your eyes to open when the kiss stops.

“How was that?” He asks.

You giggle. “A solid seven.”

“Seven?” Chris asks. “Well, shit.”

And he dives back in for another kiss.

“Get the hell off my lawn,” an angry voice shouts.

Chris pulls you off the floor with ease as you both laugh. Your sides ache from running across the street and laughing. Hand in hand, you wait as Chris repeatedly hits the doorbell to his house.

_This is ridiculous. _

It’s just after midnight and the two of you are giggling messes. The door swings open and Lisa takes a moment, squaring you two up.

You stagger in, making all sorts of noise. The giggling never stops. Lisa stands back, watching the two of you, not saying much.

“Chris, can you help me with my shoes?” You’re sitting on the stairs, already holding out your shoes for him.

“Yes, Cinderella.”

He yanks at your foot and you snatch your feet back. “Don’t bust my ankle.”

Lisa herds you onto the sofa and without even realising it — you’re still holding hands.

“So what happened tonight?” She asks, plying you with cups of water.

“Jenna broke up with me, Y/N won homecoming queen and then she came to cheer me up.”

“Chris are you alright?” She asks.

“Yeah, great.”

And he squeezes your hand.

“And why are you two covered in grass stains?” Her eyes flicker between the two of you, calculations still not adding up.

“We just made out on Mr Caine’s front yard.”

You giggle and bury your head into his shoulder. “Why did you just tell her that?”

“Backtrack and explain to me what happened, this is story makes no sense— you mentioned Jenna broke up with you,” Lisa asks.

Feeling a little awkward, you pull yourself away from Chris and hug your knees into your chest.

“Jenna pulled me aside and asked me why I had bothered to ask her to the dance when I was clearly more interested in Y/N.”

Lisa mutters something under her breath.

“And what did you say to her?” You ask.

“I told her she was probably right and then she stormed off, upset.”

_Shit._

“Well, you could’ve avoided that if you’d asked Y/N in the first place,” she says.

You squirm in your seat, sweltering in the sudden heat.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” he mumbles.

Your response is instant. Your hand collides with his shoulder.

“C’mon you must have known I would have said yes in a heartbeat,” you say.

Lisa laughs. “Well, you two ought to talk. Y/N, I’ll call your mom — you can crash in Carly’s room.”

“Thanks, Lisa,” you say.

“You would have not said yes if I asked you as a date, not as friends,” Chris says.

Arms folded across your chest, you side-eye him. “Really. I’ve had the most painfully obvious crush on you since middle school and you’re literally the last person to notice.”

“Seriously?”

You can’t help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of this because you would have sworn he knew this entire time.

“Are you blind?” You ask.

“Apparently.” Chris shrugs.

“Wait, wait,” you say, you’re now turned towards him, your knees knocking into each other. “So, when did it occur to you that you liked me?”

He cheeks tinge pink as he blushes.

“I dunno really,” he starts. “It was lots of little things — my mom kept pointing out and teasing me all the time. I’m always excited to tell you stuff and we have the best time when we’re together.”

“Except when you nearly kill me with your rogue driving.”

“Nah, you find that exciting.”

You roll your eyes.

Lisa separates the two of you, herding you upstairs into Carly’s room and giving you a pair of pyjamas.

“I spoke to your mom, she’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

You thank her as she shuts the door behind her. You take stock for a second, taking in the foreign room, trying to wrap your head around what's just happened.

_This is a dream, right??_

About an hour later, you hear the creak of wooden floorboards and the squeak of your door as it shifts.

“Hey, you awake?” Chris asks.

“No,” you respond.

In the moonlight, you can only see half his face, but you see the smile and the shake of his head. You lift open the covers and he wordlessly takes the invitation, shuffling in next to you. He’s so warm.

You learn a couple of things over the night.

Chris is hot, like too warm to sleep next to. He’s a blanket hogger, a snuggler (near chokehold) and he kinda drools in his sleep.

This resorts in a wrestling match, you pulling the blankets and nearly pushing Chris off the edge of the bed.

“Stop moving,” he whines.

“Stop stealing the blanket,” you bite back.

His fingers grab at your waist, pulling you towards him. Now face to face, heat rushes to your cheeks.

“How’s this relationship gonna last if we're already fighting?” He says, a criminally big smile on his face.

“Relationship?”

“You’re stuck with me now,” he says.

Overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotion and his piercing eyes, you tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder.

_I love you, Iloveyou, I. Love. You._

The moment is broken by Lisa’s head popping through the door.

“Chris, out now! I’m too young to be a grandmother.”

You both laugh, embarrassed but so happy and content. And little did you know, this would certainly not be the last time you’d hear those words.


	3. special order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more fluff from the sweethearts universe!

You’ve never been blindfolded before. 

And Chris didn’t just get any cheap piece of fabric, he’s bought some weird, premium blindfold. You lose sense of your eyelids as you sit strapped in the car. Your fingers dig into the plush leather as you wait. You can hear the whir of the engine as he accelerates, you can hear him strum his fingers against the steering wheel.

“I’m trying to do that thing people do in movies where they track the turns,” you start, “but I’m pretty sure you just went in a circle.”

Chris laughs.

“I’m taking a different route,” he says.

You huff, folding your arms across your chest. Your bottom lip juts out. “I hate surprises.”

“Nah, you’ll love this one,” he says.

It’s weird, knowing he’s right next to you, driving, but unable to make out his facial expressions. He’s been away for nearly a month and you want to see him. See his smile, the way his lips twitch when he teases you, you want to see those eyes — especially when they’re fixed on you.

But, no, he’s been back for 10 minutes and he’s herded you into the car, blindfolded you and is driving you…somewhere.

“You can’t kidnap me.” You stomp your foot.

“It’s not kidnapping if it’s consensual,” he replies.

You shake your head and he lets out a little huff. “It’s not consensual if I was coerced.” 

“Coerced, sweetheart? You practically jumped me the moment I knocked on the door.” 

“I won’t miss you next time,” you scoff. “You’re getting me to a secondary location, so there’s a zero percent chance anyone will find my body.” 

Chris laughs again. Frustrated, you lean your head against the cool window of the car. The worst part of this journey might be the fact you can’t even take control of the music. But, you can’t complain you love Frank Sinatra just as much as he does.

“Almost there,” he says, before resting his hand on your thigh. It’s stupid — the frisson that you feel when he touches you. You wonder if you’ll ever outgrow this feeling — the way your heart stutters around him, the constant warmth and yearning.

The car comes to a gentle halt. Fumbling, you try to find the door handle. It evades you. Growing more frustrated, you cross your arms (again) and wait.

You hear the click as Chris opens his door before he comes around to open yours. He leans over, unbuckles your seat belt, before pulling your body up and out of the car, firm against his. 

“This better be good or…” 

“Can’t think of a good threat?” He teases and you can feel his smirk.

“No food,” you decide.

“Including cakes?” 

He leads you forward. Your shoes echo as they hit the floor, which means you’re inside now. Well, you think. 

“Especially cake,” you say, pettily.

“That’s a shame,” he hums. He loves this, loves the teasing and torturing. “I had a special cake order that I thought you’d like to fill.”

“You nearly killed me with your last order,” you grumble, thinking of when he’d asked you to make cupcakes for everyone on set to celebrate the end of filming. You’re usually alright with big orders, so long as someone tells you a bit earlier than the night before. 

“I offered to pay,” he says. 

“What kind of girlfriend would I be if I charged you?” 

“One with a good business plan,” he ribs, nudging you.

“For your information, I’m rolling in the dough.” You scrunch up your nose and turn to him, even if you can’t see him, hella satisfied with your pun.

“You’re asking for truffle,” he replies, without missing a beat.

You laugh and his fingers lightly touch each of your collar bones, under the guise of guiding you. “You win this round.”

He kisses you on the cheek, distracting you as he turns you round the corner, into a different room. This one’s darker, the little bit of light that had been sneaking in is gone. 

Carefully, he sits you down. 

“I’ll be back,” he says, terrible Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.

“So, when am I taking off this blindfold?” You whine.

“You’ll know when,” he shouts across the room, and recognition dawns in you. You know the acoustics of this room. You’re in the studio, without a doubt.

There’s a bubbling in your chest as your fingers tap on the plastic chair. 

What does he have planned?

Chris is good at devastating you with romantic gestures. Things so sweet, they’ll give you diabetes. Your mind comes up with hundreds of scenarios. _Could he be..._

(You’ve discussed it, or rather Lisa ambushed you at a family dinner just before Chris left to film his latest project. Over dessert, a traditional apple pie you’d baked, she’d, without a hint of irony, asked when she was getting more grandchildren. You said after marriage and she turned to Chris, whacked him on the back as he choked on the pie, _well propose then. _

Used to the family ribbing, you chuckled and told Chris that he’d probably get a yes if he made an effort.)

This feels like _effort._

Then, as you’re deep in thought, ruminating - you hear singing. And you know those voices, you taught those voices. They’re singing Truly Scrumptious from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang — which makes you chuckle because it’s a song about sugar and sweetness. 

The blindfold unravels, falls to the ground and of course, it’s the fearsome five, singing like angels. They’ve rehearsed this and you turn round to find Chris.

Your mouth drops open when you see him. Your eyes must be as wide as the galaxy. He’s kneeling. Box in hand. Ring in Box. Oh, God, it’s the class ring.

Your eyebrows furrow together. “You’re not?”

But he ignores your outburst, his lips somewhere between a smile and a grimace. You’re laughing. “Oh my god.”

He’s not even said anything yet — except now he’s singing Dick Van Dykes’ verse of the song. Your eyes well with tears as your fingers tremble, reaching out to Chris.

“Y/N, will you marry me?”

Before you open your mouth, the choir interrupts.

“Say yes!” Ayesha shouts, which is horrifying because you didn’t even know she was capable of shouting.

You snicker and your shoulders lift. 

You hesitate again, giggling, overwhelmed, heart racing when Dylan interjects. “Don’t leave him waiting.” 

“Okay, Okay,” you say, still laughing.

“Wait, Okay to them or okay as in yes?” Chris asks.

You giggle. “Of course, I’m saying yes.” 

The kids break out into a raucous cheer. You cup his face in yours, leaning out of the chair. He’s still kneeling, but you throw your weight behind your kiss. 

The sound of someone wrenching is just as loud as the clapping and cheers.

“That was cute and gross,” Karthik says, as Ayesha pats him on the shoulder.

“Wait,” you say, wrinkling your nose as you pull apart. Your face is wet with tears you don’t remember crying. “So when you were talking about ordering cakes - you want me to make our wedding cake?”

“I won’t eat a cake by anyone else.” Chris laughs, arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in tight.

“It’s true, you do make the best cakes,” Maddy says.

“It’s going to cost you triple my normal rate,” you tell him.

He laughs and you can feel the vibrations of his chest against yours.

“Good deal if I get to marry you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more fluff from the sweethearts universe -- if you'd like more, have requests for this lil bubble - feel free to hit me up on [my tumblr](https://fairytelling.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this word vomit!!
> 
> it kept growing honestly.
> 
> if you liked it and you'd like to share it on tumblr - [be my guest](https://fairytelling.tumblr.com/post/186708533868/sweethearts-chris-evans-x-reader)
> 
> feedback, comments, love, likes etc are always welcome


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